


Forever Home

by Morgelyn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Body Horror, Discussion of Surgery, M/M, Modern AU, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Serious Injuries, Thramsay - Freeform, Torture, Torture Porn, wound-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgelyn/pseuds/Morgelyn
Summary: Written for the Thramsay Kinkmeme. ViolentGoth requested the following: “Theon is tied up in a stress position above a huge wooden stake, screaming his throat raw as his own body weight slides him down and impales him on it. If he's already too underweight, Ramsay hangs some extra weights on him to help.”Theon thinks he has escaped, but it's only a matter of time before the inevitable happens.(The prompt alone should act as a warning that this gets rather torture porn-y.)
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Reek, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy/Reek
Comments: 23
Kudos: 60
Collections: Thramsay2020 Kinkmeme Event





	Forever Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ViolentGoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentGoth/gifts).



Theon awoke with a start to find he could not move his arms. He looked around in a panic, only to see them bound outstretched to the horizontal crossbar of a square wooden frame. He tried to move, then froze when he felt something inside him. He craned his neck to look and saw with horror that he was mounted on what appeared to be a fence post. It was just the tapered tip buried inside his anus, but below that it got as thick as a man's arm. He tried to lift himself off, but the wooden block on which he stood was too low and, with his arms outstretched, the angle was wrong and he didn't have the strength to manage it. The whole thing had been carefully calibrated for his exact height. As he had known from the start that it would be.

His eyes darted around, trying to work it out. He appeared to be in some sort of warehouse, although the caged halogen bulb hanging above him left the peripheries of the room in shadow. He had been in his flat, he remembered, on the bare mattress on the floor. A baseball bat cradled in his lap and a bottle in his hand. He must have passed out. But it was on the third floor. The front door had been locked and double-bolted, with a chair propped against the handle. And the flat had been rented under a false name, so no one even knew where he was. There was no way. But of course, _he_ would always find a way.

“Hello, Reek.”

And suddenly there he was in front of him. The man he thought he saw lurking in every shadow on the rare occasions when he dared venture out for supplies. The man who had left him unable to sleep without half a bottle of cheap vodka inside him. The man of whom he had lived in constant fear since the day of his opportunistic escape, yet knew he would see again and in circumstances just as horrific and ridiculous as these. He had known all along, he realised now, the grim inevitability of it. It had only ever been a matter of time.

“What have you been up to?” Ramsay's tone was absurdly conversational, even friendly. It made Theon shudder. “Actually, no need to answer that. I know exactly what you've been up to. I've let you run on a long leash for a while, but now it's time to rein you in. Time for you to come back home, don't you think, Reek?”

“I'm Theon, you fucking psycho!” he shouted, aware that it was more to reassure himself than anything. “Not Reek, Theon!”

“I see, 'Theon',” said Ramsay, making theatrical air quotes with his fingers. “We're back to that again, are we?” He sighed and shook his head. “Was it Theon huddled in the dark in that shitty little bedsit, jumping at every noise? Was it? I think there's a reason why you didn't go to your so-called friends, the police, anyone. Because you know exactly what you are and what you deserve. You can pretend to be that jumped-up little shit all you like, but deep down, you know where you belong.”

Theon swallowed hard, trying not to listen. Mind games, just more mind games. This was what Ramsay did, he should know that by now. Playing on his self-doubt and carefully-cultivated fears. But despite himself, he could not help but recognise the kernel of horrible truth in those mocking words.

“You think that because you scurried away and hid in some hole for a few months that you went back to being Theon Greyjoy? That you could ever be him again? Theon is dead, Reek. You were there when he died.” Ramsay spoke patiently, as if explaining something obvious to a slow child. He ran his hand over the scars on Theon's chest, moving upwards towards his neck in a manner that was possessive yet almost tender. “Don't you remember? But I suppose not. No one remembers the moment of their own birth, do they? Perhaps I need to remind you.”

Suddenly, Ramsay's hand gripped in Theon's hair and wrenched his head to the side. He whispered close in his ear, breath hot against his face. “It took such a long time to rid you of this ridiculous notion of being Theon Greyjoy. But something tells me that this time, it won't take anywhere near as long.” Then, in a sudden, fluid motion, he let go of Theon's hair and kicked the block out from under his feet.

The unexpected transfer of his full body weight to his outstretched arms caused Theon to cry out. The post was pushed deeper inside him and he jerked up, his shoulders already struggling to support him. He knew with certainty that in such an unnatural position, they would not be able to do so for long.

Ramsay smiled at him. “It's my own fault, I suppose. I was too lenient. I indulged you too much. They do say the cruellest thing you can do to a pet is to spoil them.”

Theon tried to be indignant, to muster some sort of defiant response. But the building pain in his shoulders and the desperate fear of what would happen if they gave out overwhelmed him, and when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing emerged but a keening whimper. He clamped his jaw shut, humiliated further, and looked away as Ramsay chuckled.

“Oh, Reek, I've missed your delightful little noises,” said Ramsay. Then his voice became serious. “I _have_ missed you, you know. Pathetic, disloyal, worthless creature that you are. Gods know you haven't done anything to deserve it, but I'm rather fond of you.”

Theon did not respond. The dull ache in his shoulders was turning to an agony of burning, the muscles trembling as they struggled to keep him up. He tried to use his stomach, his back, his hips, anything to lift himself off the stake. But the muscles were too weak, they had not yet had a chance to recover from his previous captivity. And whatever he did, all the weight was still taken by his shoulders. So he hung there, all his concentration focussed on keeping himself from being impaled. Soon he abandoned even his efforts to keep silent and began to scream.

The screaming continued for some time as Ramsay looked on with interest, until eventually even that stopped to be replaced with raw gasps occasionally tinged with whimpers. This couldn't go on for much longer, it couldn't. Yet still Theon strained desperately, the alternative being so much worse.

Eventually Ramsay became bored. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Gods, this is taking forever! When I worked all this out, I thought you would have put on a bit more weight. Started getting fat even, without me to keep an eye on you.” Then his face cracked into a broad grin. “I suppose I should have guessed that you would be pining away for me. It's quite sweet, really.”

Theon raised his head slowly, trying his best to keep it steady despite the violent spasms that racked him. “Fuck you,” he finally managed to spit, although the shake in his cracked voice rendered the defiance somewhat hollow.

“But don't worry, Reek – I brought these, just in case.” Ramsay held up something that it took a moment for Theon to recognise; a pair of ankle weights, the sort that runners wear. “These should speed things along a little.”

Ramsay stepped forward and started to strap them round Theon's ankles. He flinched involuntarily at the contact, then tried in vain to stifle a moan as the movement caused the spike to penetrate a fraction deeper, the point of it prodding at something deep within him and threatening to rip through. His breath was ragged as he tried his utmost to keep still.

“There. That should do the trick.” Ramsay crossed his arms and prepared again to wait.

It did not take long. The weights could only have been a couple of kilograms each; Ramsay had held both easily in one large hand. But Theon's muscles were already exhausted beyond endurance, and that was all that it took. Without even meaning to, he tried to adjust his position, lifting himself slightly to relieve the burning in his shoulders. And with a sickening crack, immediately followed by a shriek of agony, his right arm was wrenched from its socket. Suddenly all his weight was supported by his left arm and, despite the pain, he frantically tried to lean on it and keep himself steady. He struggled like a drowning man, eyes bulging and breaths coming in violent gasps, and somehow managed to keep himself from sliding further down the post. He did not know how long he could continue, neither did he care – time lost all meaning in the immediacy of the eternal, agonising moment. All he knew was the desperation of the present.

Theon was so consumed with the struggle that he barely reacted when Ramsay stepped forward and put his hands on his shoulders. He applied no pressure but merely lay them there, gently cupping the twisted protrusion of bone on the right side and absorbing the twitching spasms of agony in the muscles of the left. His face was mere centimetres from Theon's, and locked in an expression of rapt fascination.

Ramsay kept his hands on Theon's shoulders, but shifted them round so his thumbs were in his armpits. For one glorious moment, Theon thought he was going to lift him off the stake. He stared at him desperately, all thoughts of dignity lost, his eyes huge and liquid and full of pleading. Pale eyes regarded him in return, still and intense. Then they erupted into joy. A wide, wild grin broke out across Ramsay's face and Theon started screaming before anything else even happened, because he knew exactly what it meant.

With a slow, firm movement, he pushed Theon down onto the stake.

His left shoulder dislocated immediately, but that barely even registered. The stake met resistance at first, the tip of it pressing into his bowel with a sickening pressure. Then, with a sudden ripping sensation, it broke through. He felt it tearing into him, his screams becoming more high-pitched the deeper inside him it went. He looked down in horror to see it bulging obscenely in his belly, the full shape of it becoming more and more clearly defined. Eventually, it split the flesh and emerged like a nightmare, glossy red with blood.

Theon had stopped screaming by now, but his mouth still gaped. There were simply no screams left for this. He was staring down at this thing protruding from his body, eyes wide with uncomprehending horror. Ramsay glanced down at it with a smirk, but his gaze mostly remained fixed on Theon's face, absorbing every nuance of his broken expression.

Then, with a sudden lurch and a spray of blood, he lifted Theon off the post. He was light as a ragdoll, and just as unresisting. With two dislocated shoulders, his arms slipped easily from the ropes, and Ramsay laid him on the floor. He was whimpering softly, the sounds so quiet that Ramsay could only hear them because he was so close.

Ramsay stood and looked down at the body that lay twisted and bleeding before him. Blood from the entry and exit wounds was beginning to merge, forming a pool around him. Ramsay smiled and unbuttoned his fly.

The wound in his stomach was too wide and gaping to offer much in the way of friction, but the idea of it was more than enough. The supple warmth of his torn guts, the iron tang of his blood in the air. His small body twitching limply beneath him, letting out a cry with every thrust. His face was a mask of incoherent misery.

Ramsay climaxed with a grunt. He lay there for a moment, still balls-deep in Theon's belly. He was barely conscious by now, eyes unfocussed and staring blankly. When Ramsay brushed his cheek with a meaty hand, he reacted with just a fluttering of his eyelids. It was only when Ramsay pressed his face into his neck and softly whispered, “My Reek,” that he emitted a faint moan.

As Ramsay pulled out, a thin rope of cum stretched between them, crystalline and tinged pink with blood. Then it broke as Ramsay got up and began to wipe the thick coating of gore from his crotch, belly and thighs on Theon's discarded shirt.

Theon lay there motionless. A profound sense of relief flooded him as he felt reality dwindling around him. He knew now that he could never go back to being Theon, but he didn't have to be Reek either. He could escape into death and, whatever that entailed, be it heaven or hell or nothing at all, it had to be better than that. He almost smiled as his eyes rolled back in his head and he finally faded into unconsciousness.

Ramsay glanced over as he put on his trousers. He pulled a phone from the pocket, dialled and spoke curtly. “You can come in now.” There was a pause. “Yes, I think so. You'd better hurry up though, there's quite a bit of blood.”

~~~

The doctor came in and tactfully averted his eyes as Ramsay finished buckling his belt. He observed the boy lying on the floor and considered taking his pulse, but then deemed it unnecessary; he could see from here that he was clearly still breathing. Every rise and fall of the narrow chest pushed out fresh gobs of blood and semen from the open wound in his abdomen.

“So, Qyburn,” said Ramsay brightly. “You've got everything you need to patch him up?”

“I think so, Mr Bolton. We've got it all set up next door.” Qyburn looked thoughtful. “He'll need surgery, of course. Stitches front and back, inside and out. The damage looks a tad severe for endoscopic, so we'll probably have to open him up.”

“And that will be more expensive, I take it?”

Qyburn smiled and shrugged, holding up his palms.

“You'll get whatever you need, plus something extra for yourself, of course. You know my father's good for it.” The boyish smile Ramsay had been wearing suddenly faded into seriousness. “But you _will_ be able to fix him up? He'll be all right?”

“Of course, Mr Bolton. Not a problem.” He kept his tone reassuring, even though the outcome was less than certain. The boy didn't look to have been in the best of states to begin with, let alone now with a gaping hole ripped through him. But he was good at what he did and would do everything within his power. Not out of respect to the hippocratic oath; he had long ago given up on that little platitude. It wasn't even a question of money, although that was a nice bonus. But ingratiating oneself with the Boltons was always a good plan in a business such as his. And there was also the matter of the consequences of letting the crazy bastard down, the evidence of which lay bleeding in front of him on the concrete floor.

Ramsay smiled, clearly relieved. “They do say you have a knack for bringing them back from the very brink.”

“Well, quite.” Qyburn crouched down and prodded at his patient's abdomen. There was rather a lot of blood, but it seemed to be flowing more slowly now. “The boy will be fine, so long as we can get this stitched before too much waste starts leaking anywhere it shouldn't. Luckily he doesn't seem to have eaten recently. And the presence of...other substances is unlikely to cause an infection.” He prodded again, and frowned thoughtfully. “We will need to fit a stoma, however, whether temporarily or permanently.”

“Stoma?” Ramsay looked perplexed.

“Yes, to give the bowel time to heal. We basically disconnect the intestine and feed it through an incision in the abdominal wall. Waste passes through the stoma into a colostomy bag, bypassing the bowel altogether.”

Ramsay cocked his head to one side in thought for a moment, then grinned broadly. “So he'll be shitting out of a hole in his belly? Like an extra arsehole. That could prove _very_ interesting. Make it permanent.”

Qyburn nodded and made a conscious decision not to think too deeply about the implications of that.

“Whilst you've got him under, I want you to cut his hamstrings. I don't want to risk him running off again.” Then Ramsay reconsidered. “Actually, forget it. I'll do that myself later. When he's recovered enough to fully appreciate it. We've got plenty of time now, and it's not like he's going anywhere.”

Ramsay smiled down at the unconscious figure on the floor, the wretched body twisted and broken and smeared in blood and cum. His Reek, back with him where he belonged. He wasn't going anywhere ever again – Ramsay would make damn sure of that – and now they had all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to ViolentGoth for the prompt. I don't usually write stuff quite this (literally!) visceral and I know I did take a couple of liberties, but I hope it does the trick. Also, my first attempt at a modern AU!


End file.
